I Knew She Counted
by LovedLik3WildFire
Summary: Now that Moriarty is gone, everyone falls back into their roles, with a few adjustments. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper could even be considered "friends." Molly is still mousy, but with a bit more confidence, and Sherlock is still rude, with a bit of civility. However, when a cab accident leaves her broken and shattered, how does Sherlock respond? In a way that no one imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Many of you who follow me will recognize this story. I had published it awhile back, but decided to take it down, since I would not be continuing with the story. However, I have decided to repost it and continue on. If you once were following me or this story, I encourage you to continue to for future updates. God bless everyone!**

**I do not own Sherlock or the characters associated with the show. Sherlock belongs to BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All rights go to them.**

Chapter One:

Molly yawned as she stood up from her desk. It had been a long day of autopsies and paperwork, and she was more than excited to be heading home. The prospect of a weekend free of work thrilled her. She intended to milk it for all it was worth. For two days, she would be hiding out in her flat, watching TV and reading her favorite novels. Toby would surely appreciate the cheerful company, as she hadn't exactly been thrilling to be around lately. It wasn't that she had any reason to be in a foul mood...it seemed to just appear and take up residence.

Grabbing her phone off the desk, she quickly made her way toward the morgue doors. She took a quick glance down at her phone, and decided that there was just enough time to grab some Chinese food for dinner. It had been almost a week since she had Chinese, and her growling stomach was looking forward to it.

Molly was almost to the doors when they suddenly swung open, and Sherlock Holmes strode in like he owned the place. It had been almost two weeks since she had last seen him, which was unusual. If he had a case to solve, which he usually did, then he was here at least some of the time. Not that she minded a break. Being Sherlock's pathologist was incredibly tiring sometimes.

Sherlock said a polite "hello" to Molly before getting ready to make his request. Instead, as he opened his mouth to speak, Molly spoke.

"No, you cannot see any bodies; No, you cannot have any body parts; and No, I will not get any equipment out for you. My shift is over, Sherlock, and I would like to go home."

He closed his mouth and stood there staring at her. She could tell from his facial expression that he was a little shocked, and a bit hurt, that Molly had refused him so quickly. And even though she was tired and hungry, she was not going to give into him this time. No matter how he tried to manipulate her.

"How do you know I came in for any of those things?" He asked presumptuously.

Molly let out a tired laugh. "What other reason could you possibly be here?"

Again, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly. As he stood there looking at her, she felt a mix of emotions. She felt triumph (and a little bit smug) for being able to shut the great consulting detective up. She also felt anxious the longer he stared at her. Even though she had gotten over her initial schoolgirl crush on him, she still cared for him. So, when his gorgeous blue eyes bore into her own, she couldn't help but blush.

"Fine," He said, breaking his gaze from her. "It can wait until tomorrow."

Molly's eyes widened with surprise. "Seriously, that's it? No protesting, no demanding your own way."

Sherlock's eye squinted in frustration. "I'll have you know, Molly Hooper, I do none of those things."

She let out another laugh, louder this time. "Whatever you say, Sherlock. Anyway, I'll see you on Monday."

Molly moved forward to walk past him, but he surprised her by spinning on his heels, and getting to the door first. She smiled politely as he held the door open for her, and followed her down the hallway to the locker room. Any normal person would have expected him to continue on his own way, as she opened up the door, but Molly knew better. As she walked over to her locker, she could still sense Sherlock's presence behind her. Grabbing her purse and a few articles of clothing left behind, she turned around and sighed.

"You do know that this is a _women's _locker room, right? You cannot just come in here whenever you feel like it."

Sherlock smirked slightly before replying. "I can when I know the woman inside."

A deep red blush filled Molly's cheeks. "Yes...well..."

He shook his head and sighed. "Molly, you really have to do something about that stammering."

The blush from her face quickly vanished as frustration filled her mind. "I'll keep that in mind." She said curtly before brushing past him. It still amazed her that he could be so charming and yet so...so irritating at the same time.

Molly hadn't realized that he was still following her until she reached the entrance to St. Bart's. His voice behind her startled her, making her jump.

"You shouldn't be out walking in the middle of the night. Take a cab to get your Chinese and then go home."

She turned around, stunned that he could deduce that she wanted Chinese food. "How did you..."

He sighed. "It's quick simple, Molly. Your flat is that way, and you were walking in the opposite direction. In the exact direction of your favorite Chinese restaurant."

She rolled her eyes at his deduction. "Sherlock, I can take care of myself."

Before she could continue walking, she felt Sherlock's hands grab her shoulders and steer her toward a cab that was parked close to them. She shrunk slightly under his hands, startled by the contact. Each of his hands covered the entirety of each of her shoulders, and she felt like a mouse under the paws of a cat.

"I am well aware of your definition of taking care of yourself, and while I agree that you can to a point, I still believe you need to take a cab." He said, opening the door of the cab and gesturing for Molly to get it.

To her surprise, as she slid herself to the other side, Sherlock got in with her. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" He said. "I'm taking a cab. I need to go in this direction anyway, and there is no point in me hailing another cab when there is a perfectly decent one right here."

Molly shrugged and turned to look out the window. Sometimes, just when she think's she truly knows and sees Sherlock Holmes, he does something strange.

Like offer to pay the cab fare.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Sherlock heard the noise long before he felt the impact. As the cab driver came to a stoplight, he thought it quite odd that he pulled out so far into the street. It took all of his willpower not to say something – rude, something rude – to the driver. However, even if he had wanted to say something, there simply wasn't time. The screeching of tires had been so loud that it made both Molly and himself jump slightly. Sherlock could see Molly peek over at him before turning to face the window again. The slight color of pink began to creep up Molly's neck, and he knew she was embarrassed for being startled so easily. Being embarrassed was the least of her problems, however, as a double-decker bus came barreling toward them.

So many things happened within a matter of second, that a normal person would not have been able to comprehend it all. Sherlock was not a normal person, however, so he caught everything. Molly's loud scream. The piercing sound of the bus slamming into the cab. Glass breaking as the cab did a barrel roll several times, before skidding to a stop on its side. The starling conclusion that within moments, they all could be dead.

Molly could be dead.

Those words echoed in his mind as he sprang into action. The cab had landed on its left side, so Sherlock was the closest to the ground. Surprisingly, as he assessed the situation, he was completely fine. Only a few scratches on his face and hands (possibly some on his arms, but his coat covered them). The cab driver had been thrown from the vehicle as it began to spin, so he didn't need to worry about him. Grunting slightly, Sherlock shifted his body to see Molly's condition. When he did, he let a small gasp escape from his lips.

Molly was still sitting upright, as the seat belt had protected her. That was the only job the seat belt did. She may have been sitting upright, but that was the only positive thing about Molly right now. Her face was covered in blood and he could see that there were shards of glasses littered in her golden brown hair. Blood covered her work clothes, and as he examined further, he could see two lumps under her left breast. Her ribs were broken. He could also tell that one, if not both of her legs, were broken as well. Molly was a startling sight, and it shook something inside Sherlock that he never expected.

He was angry, scared, and deeply saddened all at the same time. All these emotions. All this sentiment he was feeling was startling. The sight of his pathologist unconscious and broken next to him was more than he could handle. Even more startling was the fact that tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. Instead of dwelling on the fact that emotions were making his heart and mind their battleground, he did the next logical thing.

Reaching for his pocket, he felt for his phone, which he hoped would not be broken. Thankfully, it was unscathed, except for a small scratch. He quickly punched in some numbers and listened as the phone on the other end rang and rang endlessly.

"John, for Pete's sake..." He mumbled. "Where are you?"

Finally, after what seemed like hours, John answered. "Sherlock?"

"John..." He said with a slight moan. Possible bruised ribs too. "John, there's been an accident."

Sherlock heard John sigh on the other end. "What did you do this time? Please tell me that you didn't burn down the lab."

"John!" He snapped into the phone. "For crying out loud, shut up! There's been an accident. A serious accident. The cab Molly and I were in was just hit by a double-decker bus."

"Oh my..." John said quietly before stuttering out a ridiculous question. "Are you and Molly okay?"

He moaned again as he looked over at Molly. "I'm fine. Molly isn't. She needs help...now."

Sherlock was surprised by the desperation that colored his tone. He didn't sound the like the brave consulting detective he hoped he was. Instead, he sounded like the little boy who used to get picked on by the other children...when there were other children. Before he could say anything else, Sherlock suddenly felt himself getting tired and he realized what was happening. The shock of what just occurred was wearing on him. He heard the small thud of his phone as it hit the ground, before his eyes slowly closed and he was lulled to sleep.

But not before he reached over and took Molly's hand.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The bright lights and sound of people talking stirred Sherlock from his slumber. It took him a few moments to realize where his was. Memories of the crash came flooding back into his mind, and immediately his thoughts turned to his pathologist. Where was Molly? Was she okay? He needed to find her and make sure she was safe.

Pushing up on his elbows, Sherlock sat up in his hospital bed and groaned a little. His body was sore from the trauma it had faced, and it surprised him how much he hurt. However, he knew that nothing was sprained or broken, because he was simply laying in a hospital bed – no tubes, no wires, no anything.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, you're awake."

Sherlock looked toward the voice and saw a doctor walk into the room. He was short, stout man who looked like he had been treating patients for the majority of his life. Despite the look of experience, Sherlock immediately began to deduce the man's entire life. Happily married for quite some time, judging by the tight looking ring on his left hand. Enjoyed helping others, therefore choosing to become a physician. Like the fast paced aspect of life, which landed him a job as an E.R. Physician. Two grown children, who no longer lived at home, and a dog, who did. Typical elderly man. Boring. Dull.

"We let you sleep here, but you're perfectly fine. Honestly, it's a miracle you weren't injured further. Just a few bruised ribs and some cuts and scrapes. You are going to be sore for awhile, but, like I said, you should be fine."

_I could have told you that. _Sherlock said to himself.

"You're free to leave whenever you like. Just go up to the desk and ask for your discharge papers."

Sherlock nodded once, and sat up quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Pain surged through his torso, but he ignored it. "Where is Molly?"

The elderly man's face fell slightly, and Sherlock felt a surge of pain in his chest. He was startled by how much that simple look of despair frightened and pained him. Molly and himself were colleagues. They were...friends, he thought. John would tell him that it was appropriate to feel worry for a friend, but Sherlock wasn't certain he liked what the emotion did to him.

"The young lady who was in the car with you is in surgery now. They are repairing her broken ribs and both of her legs. In addition, there was a massive internal bleed in her abdomen, but they were able to stop that. She had quite an extensive amount of damage done. It's a miracle that she's even still breathing."

Anger surged in Sherlock's heart. "When will she be out of surgery?"

The doctor looked down at his wristwatch. "The surgery started an hour ago, so she will probably have another hour or so before she's finished. I must tell you though, her condition is not positive. There is quite the chance that she will not make it out of surgery."

Sherlock ignored that last statement. "You will let me know when she is finished."

The sentence came out more like a demand than a question. The doctor must have seen the urgency in his eyes, because he simply nodded and left the room. Once he was gone, Sherlock quickly grabbed his coat off the chair and made his way to the lobby. He was slightly dizzy from the pain, but that didn't stop him from moving forwarded. He didn't like the idea of being a patient here, so he needed to be discharged immediately.

As he reached the waiting room, he almost missed John and Mary, as he walked over to the front desk. However, he caught them out of the corner of his eye as he gave the receptionist his name. The look on both John and Mary's face was that of deep concern.

"I'm perfectly well." Sherlock said in a harsher tone than he intended. "Just bruised and scarred."

John sighed with relief. "Thank God you're okay. We were worried sick."

Mary nodded in agreement. "We're glad you're okay, Sherlock. How is Molly?"

At the sound of her name, he tensed up slightly. How was Molly, indeed. While the doctor he spoke with moments before had given an adequate description of her condition, Sherlock could not be certain how she truly was until he could see her. He needed to see for his own eyes what the accident had done to his pathologist. The thought of seeing her made him nervous and anxious, and had taken his thoughts away from John, Mary, and the receptionist. He hardly noticed when John had begun to shake his arm.

"Sherlock, Mary asked how Molly is doing?"

Sherlock blinked back to reality, and looked John square in the eye. "She is in surgery right now, being...repaired. I intend to find out the true extent of her injuries from the surgeon. She should be out within an hour or so."

"So you didn't speak to anyone about her then, other than to find out that she is in surgery?" Mary asked, her voice shaking slightly.

He sighed in aggravation at having to repeat what the doctor said to him. However, he answered all their questions, as a good friend should. Yet, the longer they stood in the waiting room, talking about the fragile women in surgery, the more anxious and frustrated he became. The anxiety was with Molly's condition, but the frustration was with himself. He should have never suggested that they take a cab. If he had just allowed Molly to walk, then none of this would have happened. Sherlock only wanted to keep her safe, and look where that got her. She was far away from safety, and Sherlock had brought her there.

The thoughts in his mind began to consume him, and as John began to address Sherlock again, he turned on his heels and walked out of the hospital. If he didn't leave, he feared his thoughts would spill out and reveal the truth about the consulting detective.

He was scared to death.

"Oh, that man..." Mary whispered once Sherlock was gone. "That man...he..."

John looked over at Mary in confusion. "What? What about him?"

She sighed softly. "Day after day, we witness just who Sherlock Holmes is. He can be cruel, harsh, and downright mean when he wants to be. He flatters and manipulates to get what he wants, and everyone thinks that they know Sherlock Holmes. He is brilliant, but he is unfeeling. Oh, how wrong they are..."

"What do you mean?"

Mary laughed and sat down in the chair behind her. "Can't you see it, John? We, his closest friends, know he cares about people, even though he doesn't always show it. He says he detests sentiment, and granted, he does most of the time. But did you see the way he looked as we talked about Molly?"

"Yeah, I guess," John said, intently looking at Mary, trying to catch a clue as to what she was getting at. "He looked upset."

"Oh John, he's more than upset. He's furious. You could see the anger behind his eyes. It burned brighter than anything I have ever seen. No man gets that angry about something happening to a woman, unless..."

"Oh spit it out, Mary." He said harshly. Harsher than he intended. "Sorry, but please, unless what?"

"Unless he loves her. John, Sherlock Holmes is in love with Molly Hooper."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Molly groaned as the bright lights above her forced her to wake up. She wasn't exactly sure where she was, but that was the least of her problems. Pain surged through her body like she had never felt before, and it was startling to her that she was even conscious. No one should be able to withstand this level of agony. However, much to her surprise, she was able to sit up in the bed she was laying on, and take in her surroundings.

The room she was in was a startling white, with a white tiled ceiling, white walls, and white marble floor. The bed she sat up in was white as well, with a simple white sheet covering her bottom half. It was cold, and a chill coursed through Molly's body. Wrapping her arms around herself, she threw her legs out over the side of the bed. The cool floor made her jump slightly, but her feet soon adjusted. Why in the world was she in a hospital gown, and what kind of hospital was this?

For a brief second she though, "Insane Asylum," but soon dismissed that notion. Molly Hooper was not crazy, and even if she were, she most certainly wouldn't be so calm. Uncertainty knocked on the door of her mind when she realized just how calm she was.

"Where am I," She mumbled to herself.

In her musings, she neglected to notice the door. There was nothing unique about it. It looked like any other door, with a small window for peering into the outside world. However, there was one key object missing from that door that made her eyes widen. There was no door knob.

There was no. door. Knob.

Her calm demeanor suddenly shift to panic mode, as she raced over to look out the window. To her surprise, what she saw was a complete contrast to the room she was in. The room beyond the white was very spacious, with large comfy looking chairs, and books stacked everywhere. Books upon piles of books. Two huge windows loomed over the room, revealing a beautiful scene outside. It reminded her of the library in Beauty and the Beast. Molly noticed that there were multiple doors along the walls of the room, possibly leading to even grander rooms than this one. Instinctively, she reached for the door knob that wasn't there and let out a small whimper when she realized her error. Placing her palm on the window, she knew she needed to do something.

"Okay, Molly, think. Look for clues. Deduce what is going on." She paused a moment. "Think like Sherlock would."

Sherlock. The sound of his name bounced off the walls of her white room, and filled her ears. His name triggered something in her memory that she couldn't quite bring to the surface of her mind. She could see Sherlock sitting next to her...somewhere. Where were they? Molly paced around the room, trying so very hard to deduce what happened. However, the more she tried to think about what was happening, the more flustered she became. Finally, she gave up and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Where am I?" She asked again, hoping someone was out there to answer her question. To her surprise, a scene popped into the forefront of her mind. It was an image of Sherlock, laying on his couch, with his hands in a prayer position. The first time she saw him do that prayer position, she thought he was a Godly man. It surprised her, because of how cruel he could be. But then, he explained himself.

i"You don't have to stare, Molly. Didn't anyone ever tell you staring is rude."

She jumped, startled that he knew she was watching him. "Oh...I'm...I'm sorry. I was just wondering what you were doing."

He sighed and looked over at her. "Mind palace."

"Mind what?"

He rolled his eyes and sat up, looking straight at her. "Mind palace. I was looking through my mind palace. It is something I constructed in mind a long time ago. I keep all my important information there."

"Wait, so you're telling me you have a palace in your mind." Molly said with a slight laugh.

"No, I'm saying that my mind palace is my mind." And with that, he lay back down again and got back into his prayer position./i

Suddenly, the memories of moments before her arriving at this place came flooding back to her. She was in a cab, with Sherlock and they were going to get Chinese. Well, she was going to get Chinese; Sherlock was just riding along. They had stopped at a stoplight, and then...screeching. A bus was coming at them, and then...

"No!" Molly screamed aloud, remembering the impact of the bus hitting her side of the cab. Beads of sweat formed along her forehead and she jumped up, and began pacing around the room again. After the bus had hit the cab, she remembered the cab rolling, and then darkness. She must have blacked out.

"That means, I'm in a hospital. But then, where are all the people?" She asked, rushing over to the window.

After looking out for a few more moments, she realized something. If there were no people here, then this most certainly wasn't the hospital. Maybe she was dead. No, she wasn't dead. Her parents had brought her up a devote Christian, and while she didn't exactly practice it anymore, she still believed there was a God. As she continued to eliminate the possibilities, the only logical answer reminded. She must still be unconscious, and she was dreaming.

"No, this is too vivid to be a dream. Though I may very well be unconscious, this is something more."

As Molly turned away from the door, it took her only moments to realize where she was. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one then.

"Oh my goodness...I have a mind palace!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Sherlock, Molly is out of surgery. - JW.

Where are you? - JW.

Honestly, Sherlock, have a heart and come see her. - JW.

That was the problem, Sherlock thought to himself. He did have a heart, and it scared him something awful. The moment he was out of the hospital, the only thing he could think of was hiding away in 221b for the rest of the day. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that was childish, but he didn't care. It was going to be too difficult to conceal what was happening inside of him; the evidence would be written all over his face. And though John wasn't incredibly observant, he knew he wasn't an idiot. John would see, Mary would see, everyone would see.

"This is why sentiment needs to be deleted from my mind palace. It makes it way from my head to my heart." Sherlock said to himself as he stared at the ceiling.

It had been his intent to come home, change into his pajamas and sneak away inside his mind palace. Of course he would be safe there. He had to be; it was the only safe place for him now. However, as he placed his palms together and let himself get lost in his mind, something startling happened.

Molly was in his mind palace.

This wasn't completely abnormal, as she had been here before. She had helped him when Mary had shot him in the chest. Molly had helped him stay alive, and for that he was grateful. However, he never expected to see her appear in his mind palace again. At this moment though, Molly was everywhere. As he walked through his mind palace, he would find her in the oddest places. She would sometimes be leaning against a wall, just looking blankly into the distance. Sometimes, their eyes would meet and that soft smile of hers would appear. Other times, as Sherlock would flee to the darkest corners of his mind palace, she would be there. Toby even appeared a few times.

"What in the world is that cat doing here?" Sherlock muttered to himself, as he saw Molly sitting in one of his many libraries, petting the feline. "This is getting to be ridiculous."

As Sherlock exited the library and made his way into the hallway, he jumped at the sight of Molly standing before him. Every Molly he had previously encountered looked exactly the same. This one, however, was different. She looked like she did moments after the car accident – blood and all. It was frightening. Not as frightening though, as the fact that she was addressing him.

"Sherlock Holmes, you cannot avoid me forever."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said, trying to move around her. However, Molly moved with him, blocking his path. The determination and focus in her eyes made him shiver slightly. This version of Molly was not the woman who stuttered and blushed around him. She was brave, and the funny thing was, he liked her bravery.

"My appearance makes you cringe, doesn't it?" She asked.

He shook his head. "No, it just...startled me, that's all."

She laughed loudly and shook her head. "You can't fool me; not here anyway. You can't even look at me."

Molly was right; he couldn't look at her. But it wasn't because of the blood on her face, the messy hair and the obvious pain in her eyes. It was because the sight of her reminded him of the simple fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, couldn't keep her safe.

"Oh, Sherlock," She whispered taking a step toward him. "I am safe. I am so safe. If you would just go and see me, you could see for yourself."

He flicked his gaze to her and frowned. "You are not safe. Look at you! You're a bloody mess!"

One of her signature smiles began to form on her face. "Yes, I am a bloody mess. Pun absolutely intended. However, I am safe in my hospital bed, waiting for you to come see me. Please Sherlock, even if you care nothing about me, just come for the fact that it is, in regular people terms, polite."

The buzzing of his phone on the coffee table stirred him from his mind palace, before he was able to respond to Molly's comment. Grunting from frustration, he looked to see who it was. John's name flashed on the screen. Sherlock stared at the phone for a few moments, contemplating whether he should answer. Answer, and he gets a lecture about human ethics. Don't answer, and he gets a longer lecture about human ethics.

He sighed and slid his finger across the screen. "What?"

"Come here. Now."

"I am not a dog, John," Sherlock said calmly.

"No, no you're not. You're a child! Molly Hooper is laying here in a hospital bed, after nearly dying, and you're at home, in your pajamas!"

Sherlock smirked at his surprisingly accurate deduction. "Well done John, well done. Maybe that blog has helped you use your brain to a greater potential."

John groaned into the phone, obviously frustrated with Sherlock's response. "You are impossible. Even if you find every moment boring and dull, you still need to come to the hospital and see Molly. You need to."

Before Sherlock could stop himself, he let his heart dictate his speech. "Making sure Molly is okay is never boring." He cringed as the words escaped his lips and silence fell on the other line. It felt like hours before John responded to his comment.

"Mary was right," He whispered softly before clearing his throat. "If I don't see you here in fifteen minutes, I'll tell the doctors you're never allowed to see her."

With that, John Watson hung up the phone. His words had triggered something in Sherlock, and within minutes, he was changed and out the door, headed to see his pathologist.

He found John and Mary in her room, talking softly and looking at Molly. Instead of making his presence known, Sherlock decided to stand in the doorway and assess the situation. Molly was lying (practically lifeless, he noted) on the hospital bed, with various wires sticking out of her. Several bags hung on the metal stand beside her bed, and noted their contents. Fluids to keep her hydrated, medication for pain, and one for possible infection. His eyes darted over to her face, looking for signs of the woman he knew.

Sherlock found none.

"10 minutes, 57 seconds."

John turned to see Sherlock walk swiftly into the room and stand on the other side of Molly's bed. "I beg your pardon?"

"That's how quickly it took me to get here."

He rolled his eyes. "Only you would keep time."

"Of course I would, considering I only had fifteen minutes before my access to this room was denied. Naturally though, I would have found a way in." Sherlock said smirking slightly.

Mary interrupted their little banter. "Now that you're here..." She turned to John before continuing. "We will leave you alone with her."

A sudden surge of panic ran through his heart. He had not anticipated this response on either Mary's or John's part. Why would they think he wanted to be alone with Molly? They were all...friends, and friends were supposed to stay with one another during times of struggle. Or, at least, that's what he had been told. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found that nothing came out. It was very rare that he was lost for words, and as Mary and John left the room, he wished that this moment was not one of them.

For a moment, he didn't move from his standing position. But as the minutes ticked by, he decided it would be good to sit down. He hadn't realized how tired he was, and as he settled into the chair, he let out a sigh of relief. The longer he sat there, looking over at Molly's still frame, the more he realized this is where he should be. This is where he wanted to be. The thought startled him, and he sat up straighter, attempting to look less...comfortable, watching over his pathologist.

"I'm so sorry, Molly," He whispered to her, dropping his guard once again. "I...I was supposed to keep you safe, but I put you in danger. If only I had..."

And as Sherlock's voice drifted off, he found himself at a loss for words again. He scrambled to fill the silence, but found his attempts at conversation were useless. Instead, he decided to do the only thing he could think to do. The only thing he wanted to do.

For the second time in a 24 hour period, he held Molly Hooper's hand.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

"Alright then, I have a mind palace."

Molly stood gazing out the window of her white room, as the idea churned around in her mind. She had never thought it possible to have her own mind palace. That was Sherlock's thing; not hers. However, the more she considered it, the more she realized just how possible this was. Ever since she was a little girl, she thoroughly enjoyed making up little stories in her mind or even just letting it wander mindlessly. It was why reading was such a delight to her. There was nothing like taking a journey into another person's world; one they created all in their mind.

"All those stories and memories must have created this place." She whispered to herself. "There is no other explanation."

If this was indeed her very own mind palace, then she really had nothing to fear. Sherlock had talked about adding and deleting information from his mind palace. It stood to reason that she could do the same thing. As she began to contemplate all the possibilities, she was startled by a figure sitting in the room just outside her door.

He looked to be a tall figure, though he was seated in one of her high-backed chairs. The chair was positioned toward the window, so she couldn't make out his face. In fact, Molly could not see much in the way of his upper body. However, she was able to see that he wore black trousers and quite expensive looking shoes.

Just then, the figure shifted in his seat and her heart dropped. His arm had come to rest gently on the side of the chair, and she was now able to see part of his shirt.

It was a beautiful, deep purple.

"Oh my goodness, it can't be," She whispered, bringing her left hand over her mouth. "It just can't be him."

More surprise began to make it's way into Molly's heart as the man stood up, and turned toward her. His face was one of amusement as her eyes widened, and she whispered his name.

"Sherlock..."

He smirked slightly. "Come now, Molly, you should not be so surprised to see me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but found herself at a loss for words. He was right. Being surprised to see Sherlock was quite silly, considering her crush on him. He had, more than once, popped into her mind and she allowed him to stay there. And many times, the only reason he left was because something jostled her back into reality. Now, as she stood on the other side of the door, she realized that this was her reality.

"Sherlock, how do I get out of here?" She asked, confidence building in her heart. This was iher/i mind palace, and she was going to make sure he knew it.

He took a couple more steps toward the door, letting his hands slide neatly into his pockets. "You tell me, Molly Hooper."

Frustration began to seep into the corners of her mind. All she wanted to do was get out here, and he was going to play that game. The game where she fell all over herself, in awe of every part of him. That knowing smile, those gorgeous black curls, his deep baritone voice. Molly shook her head, forcing those thoughts from her mind. In the real world, she was mousy Molly Hooper. Here, she was brave; she was strong.

"Well," She said taking a step away from the door and raising her voice slightly, so he could hear her. "There is no doorknob, so it looks like going out that way isn't going to work." Her eyes scanned every corner of the room, looking for a possible escape. At first, she noticed nothing. However, just when she was about to give up her search, she saw it.

A small ventilation opening, closed off by a silver grate.

"There," She yelled. "There is a small ventilation opening just behind the bed!"

A small smile played on Sherlock's lips, though Molly never saw it. "Very good, Doctor. How, exactly, do you plan to make your way through that space though? It's small and closed off."

Disappointment crowded out the triumph she felt. "Oh. Right."

Sherlock was right, of course. First of all, she needed to find a way to remove the grate, and it looked like it was pretty well sealed. Secondly, even if she could remove the grate, how in the world would she fit through such a small space. Going through the ventilation system was out of the question, so she began to think of other options. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Molly brought her hand to her chin, and pondered. As she thought of possibilities, one surprising options flashed through her mind.

"Sherlock," She said standing up and coming straight to the window. "Is there a doorknob on the other side of this door?"

His brow furrowed slightly. "Yes, but you know I won't open up the door for you, so why does that matter?"

A smile spread across her face. "Good; I was hoping you would say that. You might want to stand back."

Molly laughed once as Sherlock's face became bewildered, and she turned away abruptly, looking over at the lamp standing next to her bed. Walking quickly over to it, she pulled the plug out and wrapped it neatly around the neck of the lamp. The lamp was made of a sturdy material, that Molly hoped was metal. She picked it up, not realizing how heavy it was, and braced herself. Then, with as much strength as she could muster, Molly ran full force toward the door. She caught a glimpse of Sherlock's expression, which had turned from bewilderment to utter shock, as the base of the lamp crashed gracefully through the window. Glass flew toward Sherlock as he took several large steps backwards, and Molly laughed again.

"Oh, don't look so surprised, Sherlock. I've learned a thing or two being your pathologist."

The lamp was stuck in the frame of the window, and Molly quick shoved it through to the other side of the door, first removing the lampshade, so it would fit nicely. Then, with determination she never felt before, Molly pulled the bed over to the door, getting it close enough for her to stand on it. Jumping on the bed, she wrapped a sheet around her hand and removed any excess glass in the window. Then, carefully, she leaned out the window and reached for the doorknob. It took her a few tries, but on her fourth attempt, she was able to successfully reach the knob to turn it. She heard a soft click, which didn't make sense to her, considering there was no knob on her side of the door. It didn't matter though, because the door opened slowly. Molly jumped off the bed and grinned with pride at Sherlock, who was now trying to stifle a smile.

She ran her hands over her hospital gown, straightening it slightly. "Now then, Mr. Holmes, since we have all that business settled. Let's figure out how to get me out of my mind palace."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

It had been two days since the accident, and Molly still had not woken up. The doctors had explained to Sherlock, John, and Mary that she may remain unconscious for awhile. She had a severe concussion, but the doctors would not be able to tell the extent of the damage until she woke up. This worried all of them, as the realization of what could occur dawned on them. Molly Hooper may not wake up the same woman they once knew. However, this realization shocked no one more than Sherlock.

He had come to the hospital at John's request, and found himself unable to leave. The longer he sat at Molly's bedside, the more the sentiment inside him began to take over. For a good three hours, Sherlock wrestled with his emotions, but found they were too strong for him. John and Mary both noticed the change in Sherlock, and promptly voiced their concerns.

"Sherlock, go home and get some rest." John said, standing along side of him. "You're no help to Molly, if you're a mess."

"I am not a mess," Sherlock snapped. He had not intended to be so mean to John, but his emotional state, mixed with his fatigue, made him cranky. Sighing heavily, he turned in his chair to look up at John. "What I meant was, I am perfectly capable of sitting here without rest. It wouldn't be the first time I was without sleep, you know."

John did know. Sherlock would often go days without sleep, seemingly un-phased. He could sit up for hours, working on a case or simply sitting in his chair. However, he knew that Sherlock was still human and would need rest eventually.

"Fine; if you won't leave, could you at least try and get some rest." He said, pointing to the couch at the other end of the room. "It's what that is there for, Sherlock."

He looked over at it and grimaced, as if the sight of the sofa repulsed him. "No, I'm perfectly fine right here."

At this, Mary walked into the room and stood next to John, leaning closely to him. "Is he going to listen?" She whispered.

Sherlock turned completely around in his chair and scowled. "Really, Mary, ihe/i is sitting right here, thank you. And no, I am not going to listen."

John opened his mouth to argue, but Mary placed a hand on his shoulder. "Okay boys, that's enough. You don't have to get along, but can you at least be civil in front of Molly."

The sound of her name brought Sherlock back to his pathologist, laying lifeless on the hospital bed. For two days, he had not moved from his spot in the chair. Secretly, he hoped that he would be the one she saw first, when those lovely eyes finally opened. He knew she would open her eyes slowly, and smile up at him. That sweet, innocent smile he treasured. As he realized where his thought process was going, he shook his head once and stood up.

"Perhaps I will get some fresh air." And with that, Sherlock rushed quickly out of the room. It took him only moments to realize that he had left his coat in Molly's room, where his cigarettes sat comfortably in his left pocket. He contemplated going back in to get them, but he decided against it. Until he was able to properly conceal his feelings, he was not going to face John or Mary again.

The cool London air hit him as he stepped outside the hospital. People were bustling in a million different directions, oblivious to the lives of those inside. For a moment, frustration rose in Sherlock's heart because of this fact, but he quickly dismissed it. Instead, he chose to amuse himself by deducing the people who passed him by.

The tall blond in three inch heels. _27. Single, but goes on the occasional date. Works in real estate, and loves it. Makes her feel powerful when she closes a sale. _

Short, middle-aged man typing something on his phone. _Used to be married, but recently divorced; there is an imprint of where a ring once sat on his left finger. Loves playing online games, where he can pretend to be a mastermind. A smile; talking to his girlfriend, then._

Sherlock groaned before heading back into the hospital. "Dull, boring. People are so predictable."

John and Mary were gone by the time Sherlock returned to Molly's room. He paused a moment in the doorway, before heading to his usual chair. The emotions he tried so hard to suppress earlier began to resurface, and he left out another small groan. What was wrong with him? Sherlock was here purely out of concern for another human being. If John were here, he would tell him it was right to be concerned. It was what the average person would do. Deep inside, however, Sherlock knew he wasn't average.

He might be a high-functioning sociopath, but he felt more deeply than any person he knew. When he allowed his feelings to come alive, which he rarely did, they came full force. He never put his heart on the line in partiality. It was all or nothing.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect on the losing side," Sherlock whispered, sliding into his chair. The words he had spoken to Irene echoed in his mind. He was right, of course. Sentiment was a chemical defect. It had to be.

As he pondered the effect that sentiment had on people, his brilliant powers of deduction ceased for a moment. In that moment, he missed something vitally important to his existence. It would have been a tragedy, really, if the instant had come and gone. However, as Sherlock dismissed sentiment from his mind, the moment returned just in time. He watched in astonishment and joy, as Molly Hooper's right hand twitched slightly, before stretching itself out flat on the bed.

"Molly," He said leaning toward her. "Molly, wake up."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

Sherlock and Molly stood looking at one another for a few moments, before either of them made a move to speak. Sherlock still had a look of disbelief on his face as he looked Molly up and down. She had escaped a room that seemed inescapable; it was quite impressive. Molly, on the other hand, stood with a triumphant smile on her face, completely unphased by the fact that she was standing in front of Sherlock wearing a hospital gown. The courage she felt within herself gave her the ability to address him.

"Sherlock, this is my mind palace and I'm pretty sure that makes me the boss."

The smirk that he was trying to stifle before forced its way onto his face, and he began to laugh. The laugh startled Molly, as she very rarely heard Sherlock laugh. In fact, she couldn't think of a single time where he cracked more than a simple smile. However, as laughter filled the room, she couldn't help but smile herself. He sounded like a little boy; not the serious man that everyone else saw.

She took a couple steps toward him, before deciding to explore her library. It was even bigger now that she could see it properly. The ceilings were grand, rising high above her head. There was amazing wood detailing that curved with the ceilings dome. As she marveled at the beauty of it, she realized she had seen this ceiling before. It was the ceiling of an old church her parents used to take her to on Sunday's. The thought of her parents – particularly her father – brought tears to her eyes. She fought them back and continued to explore.

The books in the library were old and worn, and as she looked over their covers, she realized all these books were familiar to her. Each and every book was something she had already read; some of them from her childhood, others from more recent years. The sight of them brought joy to her heart, as she realized she was in the company of some of her favorite memories. The joy filled her heart to the brim, making her grin with pleasure. It was a few moments before she realized that Sherlock was watching her intently.

"Sorry, I was just..." Molly began to stammer, locking eyes with Sherlock.

He smiled softly, and took a step toward her. "Don't apologize, Molly. You're just taking everything in, which I can appreciate."

His kindness toward her was a bit unsettling, as most days, he was harsh and sarcastic. Of course, this man before her wasn't ireally/i Sherlock; he was the Sherlock her mind created for herself. Her heart fell slightly at this thought, but she knocked away the sadness. Even if this man before her wasn't really Sherlock, she could still pretend he was. Suddenly, as Molly opened her mouth to speak, she heard footsteps coming from somewhere outside the library. Both Sherlock and herself turned toward the noise with puzzled expressions.

"Who is that?" He said, looking back at Molly. His voice was filled with disdain, and Molly secretly rejoiced, because he sounded more like the Sherlock she knew.

Molly shrugged. "I have no idea."

The footsteps were becoming louder and she realized, whoever it was, they were coming to the library. When Molly had made her way out of the white room, she had noticed that to her right and to her left, a hallway cut through the back of the library. This is where the footsteps were coming from. Two large wooden pillars blocked the view to both openings of the hallway, giving anyone the opportunity to keep their presence unknown. However, as the footsteps grew louder, their owner walked swiftly from behind the right pillar.

"You have to be bloody joking," Sherlock said, groaning and turning away, walking toward one of the large windows. "Bloody joking."

Molly was just as surprised by the person who bore the footsteps. He grinned smugly in Sherlock's direction before turning toward Molly. "Miss Hooper."

"Mycroft..." Molly wanted to ask him how in the world he got into her mind palace, but she couldn't find the words. Sherlock knew this and decidedly stepped in.

"What Molly is trying to say is...why are you here, Mycroft?" He grimaced at his brother's name.

"That is an excellent question, brother, but you're asking the wrong person." Mycroft said, looking in Molly's direction.

He rolled his eyes. "A half hour ago, Molly didn't even know she had a mind palace. How would you expect her to know why you're here?!"

"Excuse me, boys," Molly interjected. "That's enough. Honestly, I don't really care how Mycroft got here. He is just one more person to help me get out of this place. So, let's get to it."

There was a moment of silence, as Sherlock and Mycroft stood scowling at one another. Molly always knew that Sherlock didn't exactly get along with his brother, but she hadn't realized it was this bad. You could practically cut the tension in the air with a knife. Uncertainty began to cloud Molly's heart and mind, as she questioned her ability to get these two to cooperate. Mousy Molly Hooper seemed to be reappearing, and she did everything in her power to stop her from coming back. Thankfully, Mycroft spoke, which allowed Molly to relax a bit.

"Well, Sherlock, she wants our help. We might as well give it to her, since we're stuck here together."

Sherlock looked over at Molly, his face littered with frustration. "She should be perfectly capable to getting herself out of this situation, without assistance from either of us. Besides, I already told her I wouldn't help."

Molly groaned softly in aggravation. "No, you said that you wouldn't help me escape that room." She said pointing toward the open door. "But I'm out now, so you can start helping me."

"No," He said simply, sitting down on the sofa.

"For all the times I helped you, Sherlock," She said, her voice raising in anger. "The least you could do is help me this once!"

Suddenly, something dawned on her. Molly had read a book once about lucid dreaming, where the person dreaming realizes they are in a dream state. People who were able to lucid dream were also able to wake themselves up from their dream. If Molly was unconscious in the hospital, then it stood to reason that she was dreaming. From what she remembered, people could do things in their dream to wake themselves up. As she looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, she knew what she had to do.

"Sherlock, punch me in the face."

The stunned look on his face was quite amusing to Mycroft, who began to laugh as he walked over to him. "Well, brother, go ahead. Punch her in the face."

He snapped his attention to Mycroft and practically snarled his response. "I will not punch her! Absolutely not!"

"Please, Sherlock," Molly protested. "I need to be suddenly shocked somehow, in order to wake up. Punch me. In the face."

He walked over to her, and she was surprised by how close his face came to hers. "No, I will not punch you in the face, Molly. Out of the question."

She groaned and took a step back, unable to focus with Sherlock so close to her. With more ease than she expected, Molly collected her thoughts and spoke the words she knew would hurt him. "Fine, if you won't punch me in the face, then I'll just jump."

Mycroft looked puzzled as her gaze flickered over to him, trying to avoid Sherlock's eyes. However, she knew she needed to look over at him eventually. Most people wouldn't have understood Molly's statement, but as her eyes fixed on Sherlock's, she knew he understood completely. The pain in his eyes broke her heart, but she knew she had to do it. Memories of helping him plan his death echoed through her mind. If he could jump off a building, faking his death, to save his friends, then Molly could jump off a building to save herself. Without hesitation, she began to walk out of the library and explore the rest of her mind palace. Behind her, she heard the distinct footsteps of both Sherlock and Mycroft.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked Molly, his voice a mix of frustration and anxiety.

She didn't turn around to respond. Instead, she continued her search for the staircase that would lead to the top of this mind palace. There had to be a room somewhere that had a staircase, and that staircase would lead her to freedom. Molly could feel the tension behind her, as Sherlock became more aggravated. It was tempting to turn around to see his expression, but she suppressed the urge and continued forward.

"You know what she's doing," Mycorft said coolly.

"Shut up," Sherlock barked at him, clearly more frustrated than he had ever been.

"It's a good idea, Sherlock," He responded, obviously not phased by Sherlock's anger. "This pathologist of yours is awfully smart; much smarter than I thought. The force of the fall alone should wake her up, easily."

Molly smiled softly, and turned around, no longer able to resist. "Thank you, Mycroft."

He nodded once and smiled back at her. "You know, if this idiot won't punch you, I certainly will."

At his words, Sherlock reeled and stepped in front of Molly. "You so much as lay a finger on her and I will-"

"Enough!" Molly yelled, startling even herself. "Just...enough." She paused a moment before continuing, Sherlock looking at her now. "Sherlock, you can spare yourself the agony of watching me jump off a building if you would just punch me. Honestly, I won't hold it again you. Your verbal abuse is much worse than any punch you could throw at me."

She instantly regretted her words as pain splashed across his face. He gritted his teeth, trying to conceal the pain that she caused him. "Molly Hooper, you are impossible, but..."

She watched in delight, as she saw Sherlock concede to her request. Never did she imagine being so happy about being punched in the face. Taking a step back, she braced herself for what she knew was going to hurt. However, a few second of pain would be nothing compared the joy she would feel waking up. Sherlock braced himself as well, balling his hand into a fist. Her eye quickly jumped from his fist to his face, uncertainty clouding her mind. Maybe this wasn't the right thing to do...

"Are you ready?"

Molly nodded, swallowing her uncertainty. "Go for it."

"Molly, wake up." At his words, she felt his fist meet the left side of her face, and everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine:

Sherlock was not certain how long he had been asleep, but in his estimation, it was not long. The sun still shone outside Molly's window, as it had early that morning, but it was brighter this time. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he quickly glanced at the screen. It was noon; just as he suspected. As he placed his phone back into his pocket, he groaned. The muscles in his back ached from sitting in one attitude for so long. He stood up slowly, stretching out his tired muscles. Just as he was about to sit down, he noticed a small piece of paper on the nightstand. Grabbing it quickly, he scanned it's contents.

iSherlock, Mary and I were in this morning, but you were asleep. We're not coming back until tomorrow. Mary is anxious to see Grace, as am I. Call if you need anything. -JW./i

At the sight of Grace's name, Sherlock let a small smile form on his face. Mary had given birth to a little girl three months ago, christening her Grace. He had been delighted when John asked him to be Grace's Godfather. Since then, he had taken a special interest in Grace, and she held a special place in his heart, despite his detestable relationship with sentiment.

Bringing his thoughts back to the present, he looked over at his sleeping pathologist and let out a small frustrated sigh. It had been a little over two weeks since the accident, and Molly had shown no sign of waking. The sight of her hand moving continually played in his mind, but as time went on, hope for her slowly began to fade. Now, as he stood above her, he took all the sentiment in his heart and threw it away. More than likely, Molly Hooper would never wake up.

These thoughts made him uncomfortable, so Sherlock decided it was time for a change of scenery. Surely, Lestrade would have a case for him, considering it had been over two weeks since his last solved one. It had been quite an easy case; a woman had disappeared from her home, leaving a worried husband and an unsuspecting infant. Everyone believed her abductor was a complete stranger, but Sherlock had figured it out almost immediately. The woman did not disappear; she was murdered by her "adoring" husband. When he had been questioned, all the signs were there. Lack of eye contact, hesitation in answering questions, apparent agitation. Honestly, it was pathetic. He hoped this next case would prove to be above an eight, at least.

Just as he was making his way out the door, a sound from behind him caught his attention. Any normal person would have missed it, but not Sherlock. It was a soft, yet muffled groan, barely audible to the human ear. He spun around quickly, immediately fixing his eyes on Molly. She was as still as a statue, but that meant nothing. Of course, she wouldn't be moving like a healthy person waking up from sleep. Her muscles would be tense and it would be difficult for her to open her mouth to speak. Much to his delight, the sound he heard reappeared, and instantly, he knew she was waking up.

"Molly," He whispered, coming to her bedside and taking his usual seat. "Molly, can you hear me?"

There was another soft groan from Molly's throat, and Sherlock watched in anticipation as her eyes slowly began to open. At first, her gaze was vacant of any emotion or recognition. For the slightest second, his heart dropped at the thought of her concussion being more serious than they thought. Then, as Molly's eyes adjusted to the light, that spark he had come to know reappeared. She turned her head in his direction, and smiled warmly.

iShe recognizes me; thank God./i

"Sherlock..." Molly mumbled, his name sounded slightly jumbled.

He smiled softly at the sound of his name. "Hello, Molly."

To his surprise, her hand began to reach for his, and for a moment, Sherlock didn't know what to do. Hesitantly, he met her hand in the middle and allowed his fingers to become entwined with hers. A sigh escaped her lips, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at her reaction.

"Thank you," She said, her voice clearing.

"For what?"

"For punching me in the face."

Her words shocked him. "Excuse me?"

A quiet laugh escaped her lips before she began coughing. It took Molly a few moments before she her lungs calmed down enough for her to respond to him. "Never mind; I'll tell you about it later."

As her words faded, her eyes suddenly widened. Apparently, she hadn't realized they were holding hands. She pulled her hand out from his as a soft blush crawled up her neck. "Did I do that?" She asked softly, avoiding eye contact.

He nodded. "Yes, you did. Actually, you reached for my hand almost immediately."

The blush on her cheeks deepened. "Sorry, I..uh..."

Sherlock's first instinct was the reach for her hand again and tell her he didn't mind. However, he could see that Molly was thoroughly embarrassed and didn't want to make it worse for her. They sat together without saying anything for awhile. The silence was an unwelcome guest for him. He had spent weeks in silence with Molly, and more than anything, he wanted to hear her speak.

"John and Mary will be happy to know you're awake."

She nodded, the blush from her cheeks subsiding. "How long have I been...?"

"A little over two weeks."

"What happened, Sherlock?" As the words escaped from her lips, a look of fear began to color her face. He decided to not answer her question, as he could tell she was remembering everything without his explanation. To his surprise, the hurt on her face made his heart ache in a way he never felt before. It was shocking; so much so, that he couldn't look at her. The sight of her after the accident was difficult to witness, but this, seeing her in pain while she was conscious, was too much for him.

"I think I'll inform John and Mary that you're awake," He said rising from his chair. "If you'll excuse me, Molly."

Before she could respond, he rushed quickly out of the room, remaining just outside her door. Sherlock wanted to run from this place as fast as he could, yet how could he leave her? With the feeling of discomfort still welling up inside of him, he pulled out his phone and began to call John. However, before he could hit the call button, a text message popped up onto his screen. As he read the words, the discomfort he felt was replaced with a rage that could rival the heat of the sun.

"How's your pathologist, Sherlock?" -JM


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Baker Street. NOW. -SH

John groaned softly as the text message flashed onto his phone's screen. Minutes before, he was getting ready to settle in for a quiet evening with his wife. Amidst all the chaos with the accident, they both were looking for some quality alone time. Of course, Sherlock would be the one to snuff that out.

He sighed and walked into the kitchen, finding his wife cooking their dinner, with Grace in her arms. "Honey, I have to go."

Mary turned and smile sympathetically at him. "Sherlock, I presume."

He nodded. "I think I need to remind him that I'm married."

Her laugh filled the kitchen. "You know that won't do any good." She walked over to him and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "You go on and help Sherlock. We'll be here when you get back."

He smiled softly before turning, grabbing his coat and heading out the door. What did he do to deserve such an understanding wife? He silently thanked a God he wasn't sure he believed in, and headed down the street to Sherlock's apartment.

Sherlock paced back and forth, anxiously awaiting the arrival of John. The moment his eyes graced the words that Moriarty had sent him, he went into full protective mode. Within a matter of seconds, he contacted Mycroft (much to his dismay) to explain that Moriarty was alive. Of course, Mycroft did not believe him at first. His initial response was, "Brother, are you certain that accident didn't mess with your mind." It took all of Sherlock's resolve not to shove his hand through the phone and strangle him. However, after a few convincing words, Mycroft made arrangements to have Molly placed under surveillance.

His thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. He stopped mid stride and turned toward John, who appeared in the entrance to the living room. For several minutes, they simply stood there looking at one another. Sherlock glaring with anger at John, and John staring bewildered at Sherlock.

"What's the matter?" John said, finally breaking their silence.

"We have a serious problem."

"It better be serious, because I was in the middle of a relaxing evening with my wife. May I remind you, Sherlock, that I am imarried/i now, and cannot simply heed to your every beck and call."

"Your marriage is irrelevant." He said, waving his hand in the air. "Moriarty is alive."

John coughed from shock, and stood there, unable to speak for a full minute. "Excuse me?"

"Are you losing your hearing, John? I said, 'Moriarty is alive.'"

He shook his head. "Impossible. You were there when he killed himself, Sherlock. Granted, he did frighten us all a bit with his 'Did you miss me?' stunt. But that was just to mess with our minds. He's dead, and you know it."

Anger flared in Sherlock's eyes and he practically shouted his response. "Then explain this!" He threw his phone at John, and began pacing again.

"Wait a minute," He said, reading the text message. "You mean, Moriarty caused the car crash? How?"

"I don't know yet, but when I find out..." His voice trailed off. The anger inside his heart was quickly turning to rage. Dealing with Moriarty was not that much of a bother, to be honest. He learned to play his games and dance his dances. Oh no, it wasn't the fact that Moriarty had fooled them into believing he was dead that bothered Sherlock. It was that Jim had figured out Sherlock's own game. He was attempting to take out the one person who he let have his heart. His pathologist. His Molly. Sherlock shook his head, but couldn't keep the thoughts away. Flinging himself onto the couch, he buried his face into the pillow. This was all too much to deal with. God help me, he whispered to himself.

"Sherlock, you need to relax," John said, walking over to him. "You've outsmarted Jim on more than one occasion, and I'm certain you will be able to do it again."

He mumbled something into the pillow, but John couldn't make it out.

"What?"

Sherlock lifted his head slightly. "He could have killed her, and there was nothing I could do about it."

For a moment, John stood there, uncertain of what Sherlock was referring to. However, as Mary's words from the day of the crash echoed in his mind, his heart ached for his friend. "You love her, don't you?"

He shot up off the couch, only to sit back down. "Ridiculous. You know how I detest sentiment."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock, and admit it. You are in love with Molly."

If looks could kill, John would have been dead in an instant. Sherlock had to admit, he was fond of his pathologist, but love? That was, as he said, ridiculous. He didn't love people; he appreciated them, even cared a little, but never loved. Love and sentiment went hand in hand, and that was why he had avoided it. But as he looked up at John's face, he felt his resolve slipping away. Watson was, after all, his best friend and best friends could share their secrets. He groaned and stood up. Where was that gun?, he thought. He needed to shoot a wall.

"Yes," He whispered. "I...yes, I do."

"Say it louder, Sherlock."

He sent another glare John's way before conceding. "I love Molly." The words were but a raised whisper, but as the escaped his lips, something inside of him snapped. His mouth was suddenly moving and speaking without thought. "I love Molly Hooper. Her infatuation with me was quiet...annoying, at first. But then, when she started to adjust to having me around, I started to miss the way she stammered when I complimented her. Granted, I was doing it to get my way, but that's irrelevant. I missed the way she blushed when I was near here; I missed all the things that made her a lovesick puppy around me. And when she slapped me in the lab, as you remember," John smirked slightly and Sherlock scowled at him before continuing. "I wasn't angry with her. I was...proud of her. She wasn't mousy Molly Hooper anymore. She was strong and confident and..." His voice trailed off.

"And what?" John asked.

"And absolutely beautiful."

He laughed softly, and shook his head. "Sherlock, you need to tell her when she wakes up."

Suddenly, Sherlock realized he hadn't broke the news to John, Mary, or anyone else. He smirked slightly. "She is awake."

John's eyes widened, and he took a step toward Sherlock, punching him in the arm. "And you neglected to tell us?! Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"To tell Mary," He said, stopping a moment before turning around. "And if you think my punch hurt, you better watch for Mary's reaction when you tell her. She is going to knock you clear into next week."

Sherlock smirked again, and follow John out of his apartment. His entire body felt lighter, as he had finally admitted to his feelings for Molly. Even so, there was still a lingering darkness over his entire being, as the thought that Moriarty was alive settled into his mind palace. None of them would be safe, especially Molly, until that sociopath was gone. And he was going to make sure he never saw the light of day again.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11:

Molly groaned as pain surged through her legs. Despite being heavily medicated, she could still feel every rush of pain. However, there was one up side to the pain meds; she was feeling incredibly relaxed. Being so relaxed gave her mind leave to wander in many different directions. More often than not, she found her thoughts settling on two topics: death and Sherlock.

A small chuckle escaped her lips as she considered both topics and how they related to one another. Her laughter quickly fade though, and she considered the possibility of her death. The taxicab accident could have claimed the life of all its victims. She heard no information on the condition of the driver, but she was incredibly thankful that Sherlock had gone practically unscathed. As she looked down at her injured both, a chill of fear ripped through her. Had she died, Molly wasn't certain where she would end up. Thoughts of her Christian upbringing came into her mind, and she wondered whether there wasn't something in all of it. Something she might have missed; something that made it all worth while.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the nurse coming in to check on her. They talked briefly before she left, and found out that she had a visitor.

"You can let them in," Molly said politely.

The nurse shook her head. "Sorry Molly, but visiting hours aren't until the later morning. The sun isn't even up yet."

She nodded, being content with the fact that she would have to wait. However, her visitor wasn't too keen on being told he had to wait. Molly could hear Sherlock arguing with someone outside her door, before he came rushing in, coattails fluttering behind him.

"Molly," He said nodding hello.

"Sir," The nurse said obviously frustrated. "I told you that you couldn't come in until visiting hours. What didn't you understand about those instructions?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off Molly. "I understood them perfectly; they just don't apply to me. You can see Molly is awake, and I distinctly remember hearing her say that I could come in. I see no problem here, then."

"I'll call security." The nurse threatened.

Molly could see the tension between them intensifying, so she stepped in. "Nurse, please, it's fine. If he's quiet, I can promise you, you won't even know he's here. I'll make sure he behaves." At these last words, she smirked.

The nurse remained in her place for a few second longer, before consenting. She left the room dejected. Molly felt bad for the poor woman, but she knew that picking an argument with Sherlock would get her nowhere. Once the nurse was gone, Molly turned her attention back the the consulting detective. To her surprise, she found him already seated in the chair next to her bed. He looked at her with eyes that were incredibly worn out and tired. She was quite startled by them, actually.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

He nodded. "Of course; I am perfectly alright."

Silence fell between them again, and Molly longed to fill the gaps with words. His constant gaze on her was becoming uncomfortable. She began to reason that he was simply deducing her situation, which gave her an odd sort of comfort. His deductions were something she could expect, something she could count on. In a world that was filled with uncertainty, Molly longed for something to count on. As her thoughts began to chase after the list of things she could count on, Sherlock spoke.

"How are you feeling?"

She looked over at him, not realizing that she ever stopped. "As well as to be expected. They have me pretty heavily medicated, but I can still feel the pain."

At her words, Molly noticed something flash across Sherlock's face just briefly. _Was that concern on his face? Sherlock Holmes, caring about my well-being? Utter nonsense. _What if he did care though? The question adorned her mind like a black and white photograph in the middle of a colorful gallery. It didn't belong there, yet oddly enough, it did.

Fatigue began to play with her eyelids. It had been a difficult night for her, with very little sleep and almost constant pain. Her eyes flickered to Sherlock's, hoping he would say something to keep her awake. However, he simply looked at her with the same look of indifference she was accustomed to.

"I do care, you know." Sherlock whispered, the words hanging in the air between them.

Unfortunately, his words were not heard by their recipient. Molly had drifted off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock remained by Molly's bedside, even after she had fallen asleep. He watched her carefully, looking for any sign that the words he had spoken to her got through. Though he was the master of deductions, he had yet to master deducing people in their sleep. This meant Sherlock would have to wait until Molly woke up. And he would wait; he would wait for her forever.

Unfortunately, the peaceful thoughts of Molly that were flooding his mind were pushed aside by more pressing matters. It had been longer than he liked since he heard from Moriarty. To some, it might seem odd that he looked forward to another text message. But he knew those messages were important. If he could get him talking, Sherlock was more likely to figure out where Moriarty was hiding.

Almost as if on cue, Sherlock's phone vibrated a few times, signaling a text message. His mind pleaded that it be Moriarty, and to his delight, it was.

_Sherlock, I think your affection is clouding your judgment. -_JM

_What affection? -_SH

_You can't fool me; we're cut from the same cloth. Though, I will admit you had me fooled for awhile, but now I can see it clearly. -_JM

_Ambiguity doesn't suit you. Get to the point. -_SH

_It looks like I do have the power to burn the heart right out of you, because your heart is laying on that hospital bed. -_JM

Sherlock's fingers hoovered over the screen of his phone. It was only a matter of time before Moriarty discovered the person that mattered the most to him. However, it was not the fact that he did figure it out that bothered Sherlock. It was the way he talked about Molly in her hospital bed. As if he could see her.

_You're losing your touch. Do I have to spell it out for you? You, of all people, should know I'm watching. -_JM

At his words, Sherlock wanted to get up and tear that hospital room apart, find the camera's, and destroy them, but he knew that would be playing right into his hands. Instead, he looked up from his phone and smirked. Two could play at this game. He put his phone into his pocket and stood, hesitating only a moment to squeeze Molly's hand. After that brief moment, he strode out of the hospital room like nothing had happened. Sherlock could feel the tension rise in his chest as he left his pathologist. If Moriarty had placed cameras in Molly's room, then, at any moment, he could easily take her. God only knows what horrible things Jim would do to her if he did.

Once out of the hospital, Sherlock flipped open his phone and punched a few buttons. The line rang twice before his brother picked up the phone. Before Mycroft could greet him, Sherlock began to talk.

"Do you remember what we talked about two days ago?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Yes; has it come to that?"

Sherlock nodded as if Mycroft could see him. "Yes, it has."

"Bloody idiot," Mycroft grumbled. "I've seen the way you act around people you care about; he has no idea what he's dealing with when it's someone you love."

His eyes widened at his words. "Excuse me?"

Mycroft laughed loudly on the other end. "Come now, brother; no one needs your powers of deduction to see you love Miss Hooper."

_Was everyone painfully aware of his attachment except himself? _The silence on his end must have tipped his brother off to what was occurring.

"Now, now, don't be upset. Of course I would know; I am the smart one, remember? No matter," Mycroft said sighing once. "I will take care of the little problem, and you will know his location within the day."

These words snapped Sherlock back to reality. He ended the call, and hailed a cab. As he flung open the car door and threw himself into the cab, he barked his location to the driver. Sherlock didn't hear a word the driver said to him the entire ride. There were too many things running through his mind palace. How could he have been so oblivious to his own feelings? Feelings...those dreaded things. They got in the way of everything. He had seen it a million times. People got their hearts caught up in a situation, and their judgment was clouded, resulting in disaster. However, as he pondered the feelings he held for Molly Hooper, a smile formed softly across his face. Secretly, he was glad that _she _was the one that stirred his heart into action.

No other person was worthy enough.


	13. Chapter 13

"Thank God, I'm going home," Molly cheered to herself, as the doctor left her room. Being in this hospital bed was starting to drive her crazy. How did people spend months here? It was a miracle she still had her sanity.

Today had been quite an eventful day. Early this morning, John and Mary came to see her and they brought their precious Grace with them. The little girl was absolutely adorable, and Molly treasured any time she had with the little angel. Mary talked of milestones that Grace was hitting, while John talked of a variety of things. The morning was full and peaceful, and she didn't want it to end. It did end, however, with the arrival of Sherlock and another surprising visitor.

Greg Lestrade.

Molly could hardly believe the two walked in together. John and Mary were just as surprised and John made a comment about it. Sherlock responded in his usual fashion, with arrogance and a bit of disdain. Apparently, Lestrade had run into Sherlock outside of 221b and when he found out Sherlock was coming to see Molly, he hopped a ride with him. Listening to the two men bicker sent several small giggles from Molly, and every time she laughed, Sherlock scowled.

Now, it was well past dinner and the pace of the hospital was slowing down. She was grateful for the quiet, as it gave her some time to think about her current situation. The doctor had put it quite plainly. Molly should not – could not – leave this hospital without having someone to take care of her. Both her legs were healing well, but she had no way of getting around without help. She couldn't even make it up the stairs to her apartment. A couple of options flashed through her mind; none of which appealed to her. The first option include crashing at John and Mary's, but with a brand new baby, Molly didn't want to be a burden. The second option, well...that one she dreaded the most.

Stay with Sherlock.

Of course, Sherlock would need to offer first, but she was certain he would, and that is what frightened her. Sherlock was not exactly known for his bedside manner, or any manners for that matter. More than likely, he would forget he was even helping her, and she would be stuck with taking care of herself. A small chuckled escaped her lips as she thought of trying to do daily tasks like cooking and getting dressed, and Sherlock helping her.

"This is going to be a mess," She mumbled, looking toward the window.

Just as she let out a large sigh, she heard a small sound coming from her door. Looking over, Molly came face to face with an elderly gentleman. He was short, with an average build and stark white hair. His smile was warm and inviting, which caused Molly to smile involuntarily.

"Can I help you?" She asked politely.

"I apologize for intruding, Miss, but I heard your sigh out from the hallway," He said pausing, as if uncertain where to go from there. "Is everything all right?"

She smiled again. "Yes, everything is fine."

The lie slid out of her mouth like butter on a hot pan. Guilt touched her heart for not being honest with this sweet man, but she couldn't be honest; not with a total stranger. Molly would keep appearances for everyone, including strangers. However, as she waited for the man to leave, the guilt in her heart grew and she felt the truth coming out before she could stop herself.

"Actually, no, everything is not fine."

The man motioned to the chair beside her bed, seeking permission to sit down. When it was given, he sat down slowly and folded his hands in his lap. "Would you like to talk about it?"

With that, Molly allowed everything to flow out of her heart and mind. The nightmares of the accident; the uncertainty of her future; the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Everything that had built up in her heart since the beginning of her stay here. As she allowed the words to flow freely, the burden on her heart lifted. It was the most glorious feeling she ever experienced.

"That is a lot of grief for a young lady to bear, my dear." He said seriously.

"I know," Molly whispered. "But, who else can I talk to about all this? My friends have been through enough, and my parents are dead. I have no one."

"You have me."

The sincerity in his voice melted her heart. "Thank you, sir."

"You can call me, Pete."

"I'm Molly."

"It's nice to meet you, Molly." They remained silent for a few moments before the man began to talk again. What he said astounded her. He began to tell his own story, weaving the events of his life together into a beautiful tapestry. Pete had married his first girlfriend; two days after their wedding, his wife (Margaret) was murdered. Anger filled his heart and he tried to dull the pain in any way he could – drinking, gambling, drugs. You name, he tried. Finally, after his third hospital stay for an overdose, he found his hope.

"An elderly man came to me in the hospital, much like I am here with you. He told me his story and explained who changed his life. He found God. Or, to be more precise, God found him." He paused, assessing whether Molly would allow him to continue. When she smiled, he went on. "Matthew – that was his name – told me that there was someone out there that saw me, and loved me, despite my brokenness. And sweetheart, I was so broken. He explained that God sent his son Jesus into the world to save me from everything that was eating me alive. Jesus took my sin on himself, and was punished for it. He died, but didn't stay that way. Three days later he rose from the grave, and proved he would and did conquer everything to save me."

"I know the story," She said. "My parents brought me up in church. But I have never heard it quite like that. You make God sound so...loving and personal. As if he looks down here and sees me; truly sees me."

Pete smiled a smile that touched his eyes. "Oh, he sees you, darling. And he loves you, more than you can fathom. Give him your life – your grief, your uncertainty, your everything - and watch what he does. It will be beautiful."

Before Molly could comment, she felt herself drifting off to sleep. She tried with all her might to stay awake for this sweet man, but she just couldn't. The funny thing was she felt such peace in the presence of this man. And as she drifted off to sleep, she hoped he would stay forever, to tell her more about this God who loved her like the wind loves the rain.


	14. Chapter 14

"Sherlock, did you hear me?"

"Hm?" He said, looking up at John with a look of annoyance.

"I said, 'Molly gets to go home today.'"

This single phrase snapped Sherlock out of his mind palace, back into 221b. Since the sun came up, he had gone back and forth between lying on the couch and pacing through the flat. Two days ago, Mycroft had contacted him with some dreadful news. Wherever Moriarty was broadcasting from, he was doing an excellent job of scrambling the signal. There wasn't a single piece of information that could trace the signal in Molly's hospital room back to him. Since this new development, Sherlock had been searching his mind palace for some clue as to Moriarty's whereabouts.

Just as he was about to make a remark to John's declaration, soft footsteps could be heard behind him. Turning around, he came face to face with Mrs. Hudson, who gave him a small smile before walking into the kitchen.

"I hope I'm not interrupting something," She called from the kitchen, as the sound of the faucet started.

"Not at all, Mrs. Hudson," John said calling back. "In fact, you're just in time."

"In time for what?" She asked, appearing in the entry way holding the tea kettle.

"It seems Miss Hooper is being discharged from the hospital today," Sherlock said nonchalantly, though he felt anything but calm indifference.

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson said, smiling widely. "Glad to hear it; that poor girl has spent enough time in the hospital. It will be nice for her to return home."

"Oh, she can't go home," John said quickly. "At least, she can't go home alone."

This piqued Sherlock's interest. "Why not?"

He rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. "Sherlock, the woman has both legs in casts. How, exactly, do you expect her to take care of herself?"

John made a point, causing him to immediately begin weighing her options. Mary would suggest Molly stay with John and herself, but she would certainly refuse this. Molly was awkward and shy, but she wasn't dumb. Mary had Grace to take care of, and couldn't possibly care for Molly's needs as well. John would agree with Molly and suggest she stay with...Sherlock kicked that thought out of his mind instantly. Molly Hooper was not staying in 221b; absolutely not.

"Does she have someone who will take care of her?" Mrs. Hudson asked, breaking Sherlock's train of thought.

John shook his head. "I don't believe so; Molly is welcome to stay with Mary and I."

A soft laugh escaped her lips. "John, how do you expect Mary to look after Grace and Molly? No, no, that won't be a good fit for her. Maybe someone else we know can help her?" As she said this last sentence, Mrs. Hudson glanced knowingly over at Sherlock, whose eyes widened slightly.

"Molly can't stay here," Sherlock said too quickly. "I mean..."

John laughed. "No, Sherlock is right. Molly would be dead in a week if she relied on this drama queen to survive."

"I am NOT a drama queen!" He said loudly, before sitting quickly into his chair.

"Now calm down, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, handing Sherlock a cup of tea. "I know who Molly can stay with, where she will be well looked after."

"Where?" John and Sherlock said at the same time.

A broad smile formed on her face. "With me, of course."

Again, John and Sherlock coughed at the same time, as they sipped their tea. Mrs. Hudson made it a point to tell both John and Sherlock that she was not their housekeeper. Now, she was standing before them declaring she would single-handedly take care of a practical invalid, which included her keeping house.

"But you won't even be my housekeeper!" Sherlock declared, starring at her in mild shock.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a knowing look. "You aren't injured! For goodness sake, you made poor John retrieve your phone out of your own coat pocket at one time! Sherlock Holmes, you are the last man in need of a housekeeper."

He looked over at John accusingly. "You told her that?!"

"Hush!" She said, bring his attention back to her. "Now, John and Mary can't take her in, and you won't. The poor girls needs help, and I intend to help her." She paused a moment to allow that to sink into Sherlock's mind, before turning toward John. "When will we be going to get her?"

Looking at his watch, he smiled and took his last sip of tea. "Right now, actually."

With that, Mrs. Hudson and John walked down the stairs and out of Sherlock's flat. All that had transpired between them was still whirling through his mind, before Sherlock heard the click of the door go closed. He had never intended to dismiss helping Molly so quickly. Part of him wanted her with him, which was startling; another part didn't want her anywhere near his flat. Both parts were for the same reason. His growing affection for Miss Hooper was something he needed to sort out for himself, by himself. If she was here in his flat, he would never be able to wrestle with his feelings and come to a conclusion as to what to do with them. Despite his best attempts to keep her away, Molly would be living directly below him, with Mrs. Hudson. How was he to get his heart in check with the knowledge that she was practically in the same room as himself?

Getting up from his chair, Sherlock threw himself onto the couch and wrapped his robe tighter around himself. "Bloody feelings," He mumbled.

This was going to be interesting.


	15. Chapter 15

Molly smiled as Mrs. Hudson helped her into her apartment. It was small, obviously enough space for a single widow, and dimly lit. The décor was simple, reminding Molly of her own Mother's taste in furniture. She was certain Mrs. Hudson and herself would have gotten along beautifully.

Getting through the living room was kind of tricky, what with her crutches. It took her several tries before she was able to propel herself forward between the bookshelf and table. As she moved slowly passed, Molly eyed the books on the shelf, and smiled to herself when she saw a few of her favorites. Who knew Mrs. Hudson was a fan of old fashioned romance novels? Maybe she would ask her if she could read a few of them. Diving into a good book would take her mind off the discomfort she felt.

Though she had been discharged from the hospital, Molly was still in quite a bit of pain. Her body ached all over, from a combination of the beating she took in the accident and laying in one attitude for so long. The tenderness around her ribs was agitated every time she moved, making a simple lift of the arm tedious. Thankfully, her legs were not too sore. The only problem they had was constant itching from the casts. It would be a glorious day when she could have those taken off.

"Where would you be most comfortable, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Molly smiled. "Probably in bed; I would try the sofa, but I am afraid I wouldn't be able to get up once I sat down."

She smirked slightly before nodding. "There are two bedrooms just through that door. Yours is the one on the right. The bed is turned down already, so you need not worry about that."

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," She said, smiling faintly. "You really did not need to go through all this trouble. I'm sure I would have been fine at –."

Molly was cut off by Mrs. Hudson shaking her head. "Don't even think for a moment you are an inconvenience. You needed someone to take care of you, and who better than myself. Besides, I have practice with the grown child upstairs."

She snickered at Mrs. Hudson's reference to Sherlock. His childlike behavior seemed to stretch past her and John, and into this poor woman's life. Most people would think Sherlock was taking advantage of her, but Molly knew better. She had seen the two together on several occasions, and they held a special bond. It was the closest thing to tenderness she had ever seen from Sherlock. For a moment, Molly's heart wished Sherlock would treat her the way he treated Mrs. Hudson, but she let the thought slide. No use dwelling on something that would never come to pass.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Mrs. Hudson said, shaking Molly from her thoughts. "I usually have one after breakfast, but didn't get a chance today."

She nodded. "That would be lovely."

"You go and lay down, and I'll fix it right away."

With that, she scurried into the kitchen and left Molly to find her room. Thankfully, the hallway was wide and she could easily fit herself through, without having to worry about the crutches scratching the baseboards. Turning to her right, she was greeted with a spacious guest bedroom, basking in simplicity. Along the farthest wall stood the bed, with a small nightstand placed next to it. A lamp for reading was turned on, casting a lovely glow onto the floral printed bedspread. Molly smirked at the matching curtains. Mrs. Hudson was not unlike herself, who enjoyed having things neat and together.

Against the wall closest to Molly was a chest of drawers and another doorway, leading to the closet. Taking another glance around, she walked slowly into the room and leaned up against the bedpost. Her legs, though not in pain, were throbbing from fatigue. Laying in a hospital bed for so long had drastically weakened them. Physical therapy would surely be in her future.

She placed the crutches up against the nightstand, and slid herself onto the bed. To her surprise, the bed was almost the same firmness as her own. It would seem Molly had found the perfect place to call home until she was well enough to care for herself. As soon as her head it the pillow, her eyes began to drift closed. It took all her strength to remain awake so she could drink her tea.

"Ah, tea..." Molly whispered to herself. "I sure have missed you."

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway with a small teacup and saucer. "Here you are, dear. Are you comfortable?"

"As comfortable as I can be," She said, taking a sip of her hot beverage. "Oooo...this good."

She smiled. "Glad you like it. Now, if you need nothing else from me, I'll be in the kitchen."

Molly nodded and watched as the petite woman walked out of her room. Another wave of gratitude swept through her, and she knew when she was well, she needed to do something for Mrs. Hudson. Maybe have her over for dinner one night, or maybe take her out? Ideas began to swirl through her head, just as her eyes began to close again. Sitting the teacup on the nightstand, Molly slid further into bed, pulling the sheets up around her. Though it wasn't even the afternoon yet, she let the fatigue wash over her like a cool bath. Tomorrow, she would try to regain her normal sleep schedule. For now, all she wanted to do was rest.

*bang, bang...bang!*

Sherlock frowned. His attempt at amusing himself didn't work; it only left another three holes in Mrs. Hudson's wall. Slumping down into his chair, he pulled the bathrobe tighter around him and grunted. Ever since Molly had been released, Sherlock had been looking for a case to work on. Unfortunately, Lestrade had nothing for him. Not like it mattered much anyway; if he needed to use Molly's lab, then he would have to face the person who was subbing for her. Knowing his luck, it would be one of the many staff members who didn't like him...not even a little bit.

As he thought about this, his mind slowly drifted toward thoughts of Molly downstairs. He had heard Mrs. Hudson and Molly enter her apartment about a half hour ago. In fact, he knew they were here long before they stepped foot into their flat. The distant sound of a cab alerted him to their future presence. Part of Sherlock wanted to go downstairs and see how Molly was doing. Certainly he could come up with an excuse for his appearance. Mrs. Hudson had left something in his flat, perhaps. On the other hand, he could say he thought someone was breaking into her flat. He was merely there to apprehend the fool, until law enforcement could be called. However, deep inside his mind, Sherlock knew those excuses wouldn't fly very far with his landlady. She wasn't an idiot.

Standing up from his chair, he went over to his coat to fetch a cigarette from his pocket. He searched for several seconds before realizing he was all out. Disappointment and irritation washed over him, before an idea popped into his mind. Maybe he could go out and get some more, and then pop in to see Molly after he returned. Surely, they would not suspect any ulterior motives if he explained his lack of tobacco.

He pulled his coat on quickly, and headed for the stairs. Before he could reach the top step, Sherlock's attention was diverted to the vibrating phone in his pocket. A shrill of delight swept through him at the prospect of being able to solve a case. Looking down at the screen, his hopes were soon dashed as he read Molly's name.

_Sherlock, don't shoot holes in Mrs. Hudson's wall. _-M.H.

A smirk formed on his face. He wasn't certain why this command from Molly made him so happy, but it did. Quickly tapping the screen, Sherlock typed his reply.

_She won't mind. _-S.H.

Within seconds, he received an answer. _Yes, she will. In fact, she does. And besides, your sudden desire to destroy property woke me up. _-M.H.

For a moment, Sherlock felt his normal indifference toward other peoples problems. The moment passed, and instead, his heart was filled with...regret? There had only been one other time he had felt this way, and it was at the Christmas party. Memories from that evening flashed in his mind. Sherlock could see Molly's face as if it was right before his eyes. The sight pained him, and he quickly wanted to ease the pain. Without even realizing what he was doing, he shoved his phone into his pocket and raced out the door.

Molly waited for a reply, but received none. Disappointment flooded her heart. Why in the world did she care so much what that man thought? No normal person would think twice about the words of a sociopath – high functioning or not.

"Molly, why must you be so..." Her whispered words faded into the air. What was she, exactly? A fool? Anyone who loved a man so cruel as Sherlock Holmes was surely foolish. A idiot? It would take someone completely idiotic to desire any relationship with a man such as him. Whatever she was, she wished she was stronger. Why couldn't she be the type of woman who didn't wait...no, who didn't _ache_...for the words of a man?

Her thought process was interrupted when she heard the slam of a door. Molly sat up in bed, listening for any movement upstairs, but she heard none. Sherlock had left his apartment then, without even a "Talk to you later, Molly." Of course, what else should she expect? He was a sociopath, after all.


End file.
